Scape Goat Ing

Bottom drawer rival.s

.Not a typo.

Well, maybe, but not really. Perennial errors.

I would like to be able to explain this wasteland inside my skull. With words fair enough. Press the shutter. Make images in the hearts of strangers. Analog. Not digital. Squeeze the ink out like a broken piss. Until this burning feels right again.

But it never will.

No Copernicus for this weary universe. Just clouds pulling on the sun. So weighted until. Even the stars won't move. Just stare. Cruel, unblinking microscopes everywhere.

I would were it possible paint this desert. Cut out every color that sours my blood. Drown this wasteland in release. Until every vein collapses. And the whole world can see just how dark it is in here.

But I can't do anything except beg these words. Worship them. Why won't they stop listening long enough to be heard?

I don't know, but they never will.

Maybe this is what I want to be.

Or all that I can.

This wasteland.